


Lift Your Open Hand

by CherryIce



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Benny Lafitte Cooks, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mostly Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 11:33:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19108816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryIce/pseuds/CherryIce
Summary: No matter what Jess says, this isn’t a date. Benny is Dean’s buddy. Benny is just Dean’s good buddy.(Spoilers:justdoesn't quite cover it.)





	Lift Your Open Hand

"You ready to go?" Sam asks.

Dean, who is definitely not staring into his closet and having some kind of chick flick moment where he tries to decide between the blue plaid or the red button up, shakes his head. "Nah," he says. "Doesn't matter. Benny doesn't get off work until nine."

There's a period of silence. Dean throws both shirts, as well as a couple of henleys, onto his neatly-made bed.

Sam purses his mouth. "Is Benny coming with us?" he asks delicately. "I don't want to be late."

Dean blinks. "Are YOU coming with us?" he asks, and then "red or blue?"

"Blue," Jess says, popping her head in. "You blowing us off for a date?"

"It's not a date," Dean bitches. "And for me to be blowing you off, we'd have to have plans."

"We did have plans," Jess says cheerfully, throwing the olive henley at him. "Same plans as we always do this time of year. Wear this underneath. Top two buttons open."

"Those aren't plans," Dean says, "those are standing arrangements. And one, I'm not blowing you off because we're going to meet you there; and two, this isn't a date." Pulls off what he's wearing, getting a little caught on the collar. "Two bisexuals can be friends without dating."

"I know this," Jess says. "I know this on account of how you and Jo and I aren't all currently banging."

"How hot would that be, though?" he asks, grin feeling somehow both lecherous and entirely without intent.

"The fair before the fireworks?" Sam prods. "Dean, we always--"

"And we will this year," Dean says. It's not like Sam and Dean and an expanding group of friends have gone every year since they moved in with Bobby - Sam was getting over food poisoning one year, and spinning rides seemed like a bad plan.

Sam rolls his eyes as his girlfriend hands his half-naked brother a shirt. "And what am I going to tell all of our friends?"

" _All_ of our friends?" Dean asks as he pops out of the neck hole. Charlie, Gilda, Jo and Victor will be there. He knows Meg is in town for the long weekend, but she and Cas have firm plans to spend the entire time at an isolated cabin having extremely loud sex. He knows this for certain because he insisted Cas book the cabin after Dean literally had to bail them out of jail last time. (A noise complaint filed by a neighbour escalated rapidly after an unfortunate combination of the cop being a dick and Meg taking poorly both to being interrupted and to having someone imply she was a sex worker. She'd probably have found either one or the other happening hilarious.)

"Many of our friends," Jess says, passing him the plaid. She sits comfortably on the end of Dean's bed, partly because there's not a lot of space for her to stand. Their apartment is small for a two-bedroom, cramped. It's what they can afford on Dean's salary at Bobby's, though, once Sam's law school books and tuition come out. It's not like John Winchester left a college fund for them to draw on.

Three people in a two-bedroom apartment can get a little overwhelming for Dean sometimes, but it helps that Sam at least has fantastic taste in women. Mostly. (They don't talk about Ruby I or Ruby II, but it's not exactly like Dean has a great track record with women OR men, so--) The shower is far too tight for any kind of enjoyable company - Dean's tried a couple of times, with results ranging from a bruised dignity all the way up to a black eye. If all three of them are eating breakfast at the same time, someone ends up sitting on the counter. Forget about it if Dean's brought someone home. There's barely enough room in the living room to pull out the sofabed when they need it, which is mostly when Cas and Meg are on the outs. They mostly end up with Meg when that happens, because even though Cas is the one who is Dean's best friend, Meg's apartment is in another city.

Dean didn't understand the term 'frenemies' until Meg entered his life.

"No," Sam says, shaking his head as Dean settles the blue plaid over his shoulders.

"It brings out his eyes," Jess argues.

"I don't care if it brings out my eyes," Dean says, checking in the mirror to see if it does.

Sam just pushes past Dean to poke around in his closet, muttering under his breath. Hangers scrape against the rod as he pushes things to the side. "Here," he says finally, handing Dean a black plaid button-up. "Keep the henley, leave the top two buttons open, this over top."

Dean shrugs it on. Looks in the mirror and decides it's passable.

"Yes," Jess says.

"We are going to be _late_ ," Sam says.

Jess looks at him fondly. "You're such a nerd," she says, and goes up on her tiptoes to kiss him quickly.

"Benny and I'll meet you at the fairgrounds later," Dean says, because, dude, corn dogs. Elephant ears.

"Fireworks start right at 11," Sam reminds him, letting Jess pull him from the room by the hand.

"Bye Dean," she calls. "Enjoy the date!"

"Not a date!" he yells after her.

*

"Still not a date," Dean mutters to himself, deliberately not checking his hair in the mirror of the Impala before he heads into the diner. It's not a date. They are both comfortably bisexual, but it's not a date, because Benny is Dean's buddy. They've been friends for years.

Dean at 18 would have laughed his head off at that, not just because at that age he hadn't really understood that he didn't really have friends.

( _Seriously?_ Benny'd asked, raised eyebrow and a southern drawl, looking over Dean's fake ID at him.

 _Birthday's right there,_ Dean'd said with a scowl.

_And when is that birthday, huh?_

_October 4th_ , Dean'd said with brazen confidence, because a 1/365 chance was better than none.

 _He's a senior_ , Jo'd called from the back room where he could see her doing homework, because it was a small school and a pair of new kids made waves.

 _Got held back_ , Dean'd said, trying for charming but feeling his teeth flash.

 _I'm sure you did, cher,_ , Benny'd said. Voice understanding in a way that made Dean want to punch something. _But this says April 31st. Which, I'm sorry to inform you, is not a date on our current calendar._

Ellen dropped a six-pack of beer on the bar, and Dean reached for one triumphantly. _Ain't for you,_ she'd said as the door to the bar swung open and Bobby stepped inside.

Dean'd frozen, solid, breath stopping in his chest.

 _You goddamn idjit_ , Bobby'd said. And, pulling him into a hug, _Was worried about you._

And Dean - Dean'd felt the fragile rage that he'd been letting sustain him ever since he took the car and Sam and made a break for Bobby's start to crack.)

The diner is busier than Dean expected. He's glad people are taking to it, for Benny and Pam's sakes, but it does mean Benny's a lot busier than he used to be. When Benny was working at Harvelle's Roadhouse, Dean could usually just drop by and see Benny when Dean didn't have anything going. It's not that the Roadhouse doesn't get busy, but it's definitely a bar, catering to a specific kind of clientele. Lot of the time, Benny'd be able to pop out and have a drink with Dean. If it was busier, Ellen didn't care if Dean popped back to the kitchen and helped Benny sprinkle cheese on nachos while they shot the shit.

He settles at a free stool at the counter where he can see Benny moving around in the kitchen through the window. He has Ash with him, and there's a look of resigned frustration on his face.

A piece of pie settles in front of him. Cherry. "On the house," Pam says, and busses a kiss against his cheek as she pours him a cup of coffee.

"Rough night?" Dean asks, offering her the fork.

"Yes and no," she says, spearing herself a bite. "Got a bit in the weeds earlier, and Ash's still getting up to speed."

Dean nods in understanding. Ash is all good in Dean's books, but he can be a handful to manage. Brilliant guy, but he doesn't really have a learning curve. He's absolutely shit at things until the exact moment he knows enough to be a freaking genius. It's a bizarre and hilarious sight if you happen to be standing beside him when he hits that transition point.

Ash is also a parting gift from Ellen, on loan from The Roadhouse until Benny and Pam get a more permanent staff. Dean is still not certain what Ash did at The Roadhouse, other than occasionally draw government attention, but it's the principle of the thing. Benny is fiercely loyal, had worried that Ellen -- patron saint of lost causes and kicking your ass -- would take him and Pam opening up their own place as a betrayal. Had worried that it would be one. Ellen is at least some of the things to Benny that Bobby is to Sam and Dean.

"You go make the psychics at the fair cry yet?" Dean asks Pam, who cackles.

"Don't I always?" she asks. "Bunch of charlatans. Deserve to get their socks shook with something real."

Pam may be the reason this particular fair has such a high rate of fortune teller and palm reader turnover when everything else stays so much the same.

"That's my girl," he says, fistbumping her. "You give 'em hell."

She offers the fork back. "Benny was real sorry he missed last year."

Dean shrugs. "Not like we had actual plans," he says, taking the proffered fork. Pam and Benny are just enough older that they're more Dean's friends than Sam-and-Dean's friends, so they're not an official part of the standing fair contingent. Usually, though, all Dean has to do is mention that they're going and he'll run into one or both of them there. He didn't realize how much he relied on that until last year, when the lights on the midway started shutting down and he found himself standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking around for a broad figure that had yet to appear. Dean gets it, he does - starting up a restaurant is a hell of a thing, takes a lot of time, but this year Dean made sure to invite Benny properly. This way Dean figures he's less likely to end up texting him as people empty out around him and Jess calls for him to get a move-on. ( _Still waiting for you to prove your prowess_ and a backlit photo of the stupid, oversized, stuffed shark they have an ongoing thing about.)

"I'll try to get Benny out of here for you soon, sugar," Pam says. as the bell over the door sounds again.

Dean shrugs. "I've got pie," he says. He's got pie and the notoriously genre-inconsistent local radio station switched over to rock not too long after he walked in. He's good, he thinks, watching Benny move around the kitchen, patience clearly restored.

The pie is great, because the pie here is always great. Goddamn, but Benny's a good baker. Also, Dean has selflessly volunteered his time and energy over the years as Benny fine-tuned the recipes. The coffee is good, because Benny doesn't give a fuck about coffee but Pam does, and he eventually agreed to cave on the fancy-ass coffee maker if she'd give on the jukebox.

Dean's plate is bare by the time Benny makes his way out of the kitchen. "Hey, cher," Benny says, refilling Dean's coffee. Benny's stripped down to his t-shirt and apron against the kitchen heat, and there are a few beads of sweat against his temples. Dean swallows a little too fast, chokes on too-hot coffee. Benny laughs, and, god, how does his laugh have a drawl. "Careful, or we'll have to put up warning signs about the coffee being hot," Benny says.

Dean raises his eyebrow, because he knows Sam has regaled Benny multiple times with the story about how the hot coffee lawsuit was actually a little old lady's legitimate attempt to get a giant, soulless multinational corporation to pay for skin grafts for 3rd-degree burns.

"Well, the coffee sure ain't the only thing that's hot around here," Pam says as she breezes past, affably slapping Benny on the ass and ruffling Dean's hair.

Benny shakes his head fondly. "Sorry for the wait, cher," he says, leaning in closer to Dean across the counter. "Give me ten?"

"No problem," Dean says, pawing his hair back into place. Benny heads upstairs to his tiny-ass apartment. Dean throws a couple of bucks on the counter for a tip and wanders outside to wait in the cooler night air in the parking lot. Benny or Pam will end up breaking into his car to stuff the money back into the glovebox by the end of the week, but it's the principle of the thing.

When Benny comes out, he's freshly showered and wearing clean clothes. Crisp white dress shirt, dark jeans. Dean's told Benny a million times that he doesn't mind if he smells like food, but Benny has a wicked sensitive sense of smell. _And it's a sign of respect_ , Benny always says. Dean just rolls his eyes, because he'll be damned if he'll let himself feel self-conscious about the motor oil and grease worn beneath his nails. He passed that point a lot of years ago.

"All dressed up for little old me?" Dean asks, faking a swoon. "Why, Mr. Lafitte, I do declare."

Benny rolls his eyes, but sweeps his arm out to catch Dean reclining part way back into his dramatic swoon. "Mais bien sûr, mon chéri," he says as Dean looks up at him, backlit by the streetlights. His hand on Dean's back is warm and god, he's strong, Dean thinks, because Dean is not some fragile little flower.

Not a date, Dean reminds himself when his heart thumps in his chest. He hears the restaurant door jangle open and disgorge what sounds like a pair of laughing, sated customers onto the sidewalk. Not a date, Dean thinks, moment broken, and forces a laugh and pokes Benny's shoulder so the other man sweeps him upright.

"Fireworks?" Benny asks, moving around to the passenger door of the Impala.

"You know me," Dean says, as he starts up the car. "I never turn down a good explosion."

Sam and the others will have found a good spot on the hill by now, so as long as they get to fairgrounds in time, they should be able to get a decent vantage point.

Unfortunately, it becomes clear pretty quickly that they're not going to make it. Traffic through the city is so slow that Dean ends up pulling off onto the back roads to get around it, and they end up in a confusing series of unlit gravel roads.

"Well," Dean says. "This isn't going to happen. Sorry, man."

"Pull over here," Benny says suddenly, pointing.

Dean's not sure what he means, but he trusts Benny. It's mostly because Benny's eyesight is as sharp as his sense of smell.

Okay, it's more because Benny's always had his back.

Dean takes the turnoff Benny pointed out. He takes it slowly, because the lane is rutted, faint, and peters out into the grass.

"Keep going," Benny says. "Just a bit farther."

"Baby throws an axle and you're paying for it," Dean grumbles, but he keeps going.

"Just about there," Benny says, and they crest a hill. "Stop," he says.

"Huh," Dean says, bringing the car to a halt. The hill is bigger than it looked in the dark so they're up high enough to see the sweep of the fairgrounds before them. They can't get there by any means, but they're close enough they should have a fairly unobstructed view of the fireworks. "Yeah, this'll do," Dean says. "Open your window." The station's still playing rock and he turns the key back so the radio stays on when the car is off, headlights disappearing and leaving them completely in the dark until their eyes adjust. He can feel Benny sitting still and warm beside him, watches out of the corner of his eye as his pupils adjust and Benny swims into relief in the starlight and distant glow of the city and neon of the fairway.

"Come on," Benny says, getting out of the car.

Dean joins him sitting on the hood. The engine beneath them is warm, a comfortable counterpoint to the cool night air. It's not cold, not uncomfortable, but there's a chill. Benny's close enough that Dean can feel the warmth coming off of him, too. The long grass before them bends in the wind, rippling waves chasing each other until they're lost in the dark.

"You miss the ocean?" Dean asks, because it feels a little like they're sitting on a raft in the dark, stars overhead and water whispering out around them.

"Now and then," Benny says, and Dean gets that it's complicated. Feels the same way about the way the road unwound beneath the Impala when he was young, the way forests and mountains and fields fell before them as John chased after something he was never going to find. Benny'd fetched up at Ellen's years ago, after he realized just how wrong a crowd he'd fallen in with and took off for anywhere else. Ellen had taken a single look at him, puffed up like a porcupine, cut healing ugly on his neck, and pretending he was meant to be alone, and put him to work.

"Got to love a fair," Dean says, trying to break the tension, lighten the mood.

Benny laughs. "This ain't exactly what I'd call-world class."

"Nah," Dean says. "But it's ours." It comes through for a week once a summer, familiar rides bearing the same scratches, paint wearing away and getting repainted in a constant cycle. Every year there's a new game here, a ride replaced there, but the core remains the same. Dean looks forward to it every year, not just because they set off a hell of a fireworks show the last day they're in town.

"Sorry I've been so busy," Benny says. The perpetual note of good humour that runs beneath his voice is missing. He looks a different kind of tired than he normally does, something heavy in his eyes until he scrubs his hands across his face.

Dean waves a hand in dismissal. "I get it, man," he says. "You've got a lot going on."

"Doesn't mean I don't need to make the time," Benny says. "I know you're supposed to be with Sam right now."

Dean shrugs, playing it off like it's not a big deal. Like none of it is a big deal. He feels bad about it, though - feels bad that he's not there with Sam, not letting Charlie drag him on the kiddie rides with her. Dean misses it - Benny turning up randomly, the two of them just letting themselves be aimless, wander the fairway night under neon lights, navigating the barker's calls and electric ding of games and rushing, rising whir of the machinery of the rides and delighted screams of riders. The smell of sawdust and motor oil, popcorn and cotton candy.

"This was going to be the year I finally won you that damn shark," Benny says. He shifts forward, resting his elbows on his knees the way the fairgrounds cut a neon line between the dark of the fields and the cool lights of the city.

 _That damn shark_ is the big prize that's been hanging atop the milk-jug toss for as long as anyone in town can remember. It's mottled blue and grey, surprisingly realistic, and at least as big as Charlie. Its snaggle-toothed hammerhead grin greets them year after year, taunting them. "Still got a place of honour saved for it on my bed," Dean laughs. He can't even remember exactly how it started, just knows that Benny gets more and more serious about it every year.

"Ah, who am I kidding," Benny says. "Probably just woulda ended up buying you a forfeit corndog again." He sounds weirdly bereft. They can hear leaves rustling, the faint tick of the cooling engine. Here and there, the rising whirl of rides, the faint scream of riders as they drop.

"Next year," Dean says, leaning back on the hood, bumping his knee against Benny's. The radio has switched to some kind of pop bullshit. He thinks about saying something about the smaller plastic shark figurine Benny'd won him one year, how it sits on his dresser, but he swallows around the words. "Still going to call that forfeit in sometime, though."

Benny laughs, broad. "It's a --" the first fireworks go off -- "date," he finishes, absently, as if by accident.

"Whoa," Dean says, sitting up straight as the sky starts to light up red and orange, the crack and retort of the explosions reaching them second after the light. "Wait, a what?" he asks.

Benny doesn't look at him, just turns his face to the sky, lighting up with patterns of distant colours.

Okay, Dean thinks. Okay, he thinks, Benny suddenly stiff beside him. Dean breathes in the cool night air, the scent of chlorophyll, looks at the fireworks. He suddenly realizes what song the radio is playing, and a laugh bubbles out of his chest before he can stop it. Benny tenses beside him and Dean's arm darts out to catch him. "That's not--" Dean says. "The song, Benny," he says. "Don't tell me you can't hear what's playing."

 _Oh, kiss me beneath the milky twilight_ the radio sings, punctuated by the distant snap of fireworks. _Lead me out on the moonlit floor_.

Benny stays still, just breathing. Listening. Dean lets go of his arm so he can leave, if he really wants to.

"Yeah?" Benny asks. He's still not looking at Dean.

"Yeah," Dean says. Closer.

Benny turns back towards Dean, one hand braced on the hood and the other reaching out to cup Dean's jaw. His thumb strokes against Dean's cheek, catches at the corner of his lips. "Dean?" he asks, he sounds - god, he sounds wrecked already.

"Kiss me," Dean says, kind of with the song and kind of trying not to laugh with nerves and the entirety of it all, Benny's face lighting up in a million colours. He turns his head into Benny's hand and leans forward so that their mouths are almost touching, breath mingling, close enough that all he can see is Benny's eyes, Benny's lashes, and Benny kisses him.

Benny kisses him, finally, soundly, with the distant crack of fireworks floating around them and sparkling overhead and the engine cooling between them and Dean's fingers digging into the back of Benny's neck like he's trying to erase even the smallest of spaces between them.

Dean pulls back, finally, just a little, forehead pressed to Benny's, breathing hard, inhaling the fresh soap smell of him, mouth tingling, chin feeling a little raw from Benny's beard. "Tonight was going to be a date," he says finally.

Benny laughs. Dean likes the way he can feel it rumble through Benny's body. "They've all been dates, cheri," he says. Whispers right into the shell of Dean's ear before he nips at Dean's earlobe, mouths down his neck.

Dean realizes with sudden clarity that he is never going to live this down. That Jess will never let him forget this for the rest of time. That for the rest of his life, if someone asks what their song is, or how they got together, he's going to have to admit to freaking Sixpence None the Richer.

 _Worth it_ , Dean thinks as he tightens his fingers at the base of Benny's neck and drags his mouth back up to meet his.

**Author's Note:**

> The blame for this can be laid firmly at sweetestdrain's feet. (She also beta'd this, so she gets thanks as well as blame.) I've been working what was supposed to be a short D/B trope fic, but the darn thing has grown out of my control and turned into the slowest of slow burns. "This is going to be Dean's new theme song," she said, and sent me Sixpence None The Richer's _Kiss Me_.
> 
> Things escalated from there.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
